Can I Get That in Writing?
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Life aboard the Mother of Invention had been pretty standard prior to the arrival of the Sarcophagus. Now, reflecting on the sorry state of affairs that has become his life ever since a little green cockbite began living in his head, York wonders if it's too late to submit his two weeks' notice. [Introspections of the relationships between the Freelancers and their A.I.]
1. AI Appreciation Day

If we're gonna make this a story about humans and A.I.s, then who better to start us off than Sir Seethes-A-Lot and his noble steed, the respective posture children for the genre?

Seeing as the Alpha was based off of everything the Director ever was, you'd think the guy would have felt some affection for his creation―you know, before he tortured it into insanity. Here's my attempt to expand on that stray thought, before it derails any further. First time I've ever written for either of these characters, so this ought to be interesting.

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> In which the Director comes to the conclusion that a cat is far less demanding than an arrogant, preening, attention-seeking computer program.

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><p><strong>Chapter One: A.I. Appreciation Day<strong>

Let it never be said that Dr. Leonard Church was above pettiness.

Especially where his job was concerned.

Not for the first time that afternoon the man paused mid-keystroke and pushed away from his computer. The thought briefly occurred to him to pause from his work and fetch a glass of water, to ease the pressure building behind his eyes. Glancing at the nearly eye-level stack of files squatting on his desk sent a renewed wave of stubbornness through him. In the end martyrdom won out, and the Director settled on the alternative of written paperwork as opposed to computer work. (The alternative-alternative was to simply chuck his personalized hell of a bureaucratic nightmare into the waste bin—tempting, especially when it sat only two feet from his chair.)

But no. Migraine-inducing paperwork it was.

Because _of course_ he had to cater to the tedium of biased politicians who considered themselves important enough to send a conga line of demands his way, with their _actual_ involvement beginning and ending with the words "public funding." It was a matter of satisfying the UNSC's need for proof that his department was a concrete alien-deterrent, and not a black hole of violent resource consumption. And the bigwigs weren't making his job of winning the war any easier.

Sighing, he reached over and plucked a leaflet from the top of the pile—an incident report, by the looks of it—and it set on the desk. The vertebrae in his neck shrilly protested when he leaned over his workspace to peer at the font, eyes darting back and forth over the text.

"Keep leaning that close and you're going to merge with the desk."

Thank god for all those years of yoga classes Allison had strong-armed him into. He didn't quite leap out of his chair, but it was close. He shifted in his seat, hawk eyes homing in on the six-inch-high hologram standing on his desk. "That was unnecessary."

The AI shrugged. There was nothing innocent about the gesture. "Just sayin'."

At least there was one consistency in his routine that didn't involve distractions and mind games. "Alpha, command: run tomorrow's schedule and check my inbox."

"What, no, 'Hi, how's your day been'?"

_That didn't involve_ unexpected _distractions and mind games_, the Director silently amended. Inherent Flaw Number Two in his creation certainly presented no shortage of that. "Instruction: acknowledge last directive," he repeated.

Alpha's _arrogance_ held a monopoly on the lofty title of Inherent Flaw Number One, currently making itself known in his holier-than-thou posture. "Where's the fire?"

Glaring at the AI had the desired effect, and Alpha relented. "Sheesh, fine. Okay, I've got two training matches scheduled for tomorrow, the first for 0900, the second at 1250. The morning session is a cooperative exercise. I decided to mix things up and partnered Agent Carolina with Agent South Dakota. Their opponents will be Agents North Dakota and Connecticut."

The Director absorbed that information. "A rather unusual matchup," the man at last conceded.

Alpha sank into his hip and peered back up. "You said to change the variables. Not my fault you didn't specify which ones. Besides, this will be a good way to determine if they can play nice with their teammates."

"Useful and true, I suppose. Next?"

"Washington versus Wyoming."

The resident firearms specialists. A hitch in the scheduling that didn't escape his attention, and certainly couldn't have escaped Alpha's. "Both of them are ranged fighters. Unless cover is omitted, they'll be continuously shooting at each other until they run out of ammo."

To that the AI brightened, both in luminosity and mood. "Which is why I made it so that they won't be stationary the entire time. Kind of hard to take potshots while dodging automated turrets programmed to indiscriminately fire at anything giving off a temperature of 98.6°."

_Creative_. Not something the Director would ever admit to aloud, of course; his creation's ego was already one helium tank short of a zeppelin. "And?" he asked.

"I ran a hundred different calculations and determined that Agent Wyoming would win approximately eighty-seven out of one hundred times—under normal circumstances. Neither has historically done well with adapting to unexpected obstacles. This exercise is more about testing their ability to react and improvise, while still maintaining the former objective of eliminating the target."

Not completely unsurprising. While a competent soldier in his own right, Washington always fell short to Wyoming, whose numbers on the board edged him out by decimals. Still, he would have been lying if he said he wasn't curious about how well they'd fair tomorrow. Something he intended to watch in person, schedule permitting, of course. He reached for stack of papers and shuffled them. "Why such a large gap between matches?"

"Oh, that?" The blue silhouette regarded his fingertips. "Agent York requisitioned the room for a lockpick simulation. Not that it'll do him any good, seeing as the last thing he managed to pick successfully was his nose."

Once again the Director forcibly reminded himself _no_, the endless stream of sardonic commentary was not a coding defect, no matter how many times he had skimmed through his notes trying to find the glitch responsible for unfiltered sarcasm. A miner had more success panning gold out of silt than he had extracting the information he wanted out of the never-ending peanut gallery. As if he didn't have enough headaches in his life right now, without fighting the desire to find a way to duct tape a hologram's mouth.

He gave the construct a withering look instead.

Unfazed as usual by the disapproval in his creator's glare, Alpha shrugged, again. "Hey, it's not my fault the guy has a 32.7% success rate." When it became clear that he wasn't going to provide the obligatory counter-quip, Alpha shuffled his armored boots. "Does the schedule work for you?"

"It does. Continue."

"All right. Next…" As the AI spoke he strode across the desk's surface, making an abrupt ninety-degree turn in front of his computer. With what could only be described as a regally dismissive gesture, the hologram flicked his wrist, closing out of two tabs on his screen—something that the Director would tear his hair out over later when he discovered that he closed out of his work _without saving_—and pulled up his mailing list. "We've got a message from the Chairperson's assistant. Apparently the Oversight Sub-Committee wants us to send them an updated list of our inventories." A snort. "I think they're still bitching about the missing equipment and want to make sure we haven't sabotaged ourselves, the paranoid old—"

"_Alpha_." Last thing the Director wanted was for his creation to start habitually spouting obscenities, especially if the UNSC's prodding warranted an in-person tour of the ship. God knew what sort of impression that would leave on his superiors.

"What?" Alpha turned to face him, chin hitched up in the air. "You can't tell me that you don't think that new 'one crashed Pelican per mission' policy is stupid. We're at war! Do they think if we ask the Covenant nicely they'll stop trying to shoot us out of the air because we have a quota to meet? That's like asking a rainstorm to not soak your brand new sweater."

"He has been rather…pushy, as of late."

"You want me to send him an e-mail with a virus attached?" Alpha asked. "I can disguise it as junk mail."

What was more distressing than the eagerness in the suggestion was the knowledge that he probably _would have_ done it, too, without prompting—or worse. "That won't be necessary."

"Fun kill."

Vindictiveness wouldn't deter Hargrove. No matter how tempting.

"Just send him the necessary information," the Director ordered. He shot the little figure a warning look. "Without encrypting it."

"Got it."

"And you wonder why his department does not trust mine," the old man mused, with an expression that some distant relation to a smile. "I'd almost think _you_ had something to do with it."

Once more Alpha resumed patrolling the length of his desk, pausing to skim a holographic hand over his stapler. "I have no idea what you're talking about." More flippantly, the computer program said, "Well it won't matter soon enough, seeing as they're sacking the Chairperson."

There was very little that the Director didn't know about or wasn't directly involved it. Suffice to say it caught him off guard, ransacking his memory and not being to recall hearing that. "…Where did you learn that information from?" he asked carefully.

"Oh, you know." Alpha shrugged. "Places."

"The Counselor told you that he was retiring."

Alpha peered inside his paperclip container. "Yeah. Retiring's a word. So is 'being peer-pressured to resign so as to not make a scene.'"

He continued to watch the AI explore his workspace, poking and prodding whenever something caught his eye. "And what makes you so certain of that?"

Satisfying his curiosity (for now), Alpha stepped away from the tape dispenser and faced the Director. "The rumor mill. People talk."

_What people could he be possibly interacting with to overhear that_—_?_

The realization hit him.

"I'm glad to see you're spending your time wisely by _spying_ on my agents," he drawled.

At least he knew it wasn't a lie; Alpha liked to boast about his accomplishments.

Sure enough, his tone confirmed his suspicions, a voice so pleased with itself that it dripped smugness. "What can I say? The walls have ears and eyes—or to be more exact, computer terminals and cameras. Not my fault they run their mouths in the hallways. And the mess hall." Alpha paused and considered, then, almost as an afterthought: "And the locker room."

"Surely there are more productive things you could be doing."

"Nothing wrong with a little reconnaissance, boss."

That almost made the Director bark an incredulous laugh. Almost. He liked to think he had more self-control than that. Instead, the man inched a little closer, looming over the AI. "And what intel could you possibly be gathering in the _locker room?_"

"…Stuff," Alpha replied, not quite meeting his gaze.

This time he didn't even bother to hide his sigh. For all intents and purposes the Director was content to let his creation do as he wanted—questionable motives aside—as long as he followed protocol and completed his assignments. So far that was holding true. This time he swore he heard something in his neck crack as he resumed hunching over his reports, intending on picking up where he left off. "Was that the only message?" he asked, not glancing up.

"Yep. Done and done," affirmed the AI.

"Thank you, Alpha. Command: run numbers on the next mission again. Account for standard delays in communication and response time."

Which was where the conversation should have ended.

It _shouldn't_ have continued with Alpha projecting himself on top of the paper, so suddenly that this time the Director did jerk back in surprise. Just in time he managed to catch his weight before his own momentum sent him sprawling on the floor. Alpha watched the Director as he steadied himself back into his chair with an autumn-crisp frown. "Speaking of the next mission… You know, I was thinking—seeing as Agent York's infiltration skills won't be improving any time soon, and the next objective requires stealth, maybe—just hear me out, okay?—maybe if the team had an _AI_ capable of disabling locks without tripping the alarm…"

He knew where that line of thinking was going as soon as he spoke, and silenced him with a raised hand. His gaze was tempered steel. "We've already spoken about this, Alpha. The answer is 'no.'"

"Oh, come on, it's not as if the agents haven't seen a Smart AI before! Just stick me in one of their suits, it'll be like I'm not even there."

"The answer is _no_. End of discussion."

"Speaking as a _very_ valuable military asset, I think my talents are being wasted on—"

"_Enough_."

It was the raised tone that made his wayward creation realized that he'd overstepped his boundaries, and quieted, helmet bowed a fraction. "…Right. Should have figured as much."

"Your presence aboard this vessel is classified, Alpha." The Director steepled his hands. "The only two personnel who are privy to that information are—"

"You and the Counselor, I know." Resentment soured his tone.

"Precisely." He studied the AI over the rim of his glasses. "So you see why I cannot spare you for field missions."

"Yeah."

"Then I take it you will not broach the subject again?"

"No." Alpha's voice hardened. "_Sir_."

"Good." With that said and done the Director returned to his work. It was after he'd gotten three sentences into the incident report and jotted a note down in the margin did a pale blue glow ease into his periphery. "I believe I gave you orders," he said, not looking up. "Why are you still here?"

"What?" The faintest crackle of static curled in his voice. To the untrained ear Alpha sounded uncertain, nonchalant. To the trained ear there was the bittersweet appreciation for an actor who knew how to fool his audience. "Oh, uh. I was just wondering. So…how've you been?"

"Pardon?"

He glanced up in time to see Alpha—who had been pretending to watch his feet—return his stare with an offhand gesture. "You know. ¿Qué pasa? What's up? You've been in and out of briefings and conferences all afternoon, so I didn't get to really say hi, save for this morning when you were getting ready to take a shower. That reminds me, how's the rash? Did you get the ointment for it ye—"

"I. Am. Working."

"I can see that, and you're doing a _phenomenal _job at it."

The old man resumed his staring contest with the report, hoping the AI would take a hint. "These need to be filed by tonight. I don't have time for pleasantries."

"Oh. Well, maybe I can help."

It was only when he realized he'd reread the same sentence twice that the Director decided this problem needed to be nipped in the bud. Very, very slowly, he peeled himself from his hunched-over position, studying Alpha over the rim of his glasses. "Is there something that you _need_, Alpha?"

"A vacation would be nice," came the sardonic retort.

"You want a vacation?"

Snorting under his breath, Alpha straightened. "For _you_," he clarified, "not me. You're a hardworking guy, Director. But hardworking guys are still human—unless you're me, and can multitask for forty-eight hours straight—but see, that's my point. I think you need to take a break. Just step away from your desk, take a deep breath, recharge your mental batteries. Not even a full hour, like every sane functioning human being takes. Just thirty minutes should do the trick. And hey, if you're looking for company, I can save the analyses for later and—"

"I have a full schedule." Each syllable pronounced painstakingly. "A full, _unnegotiable_, schedule which requires my undivided attention."

"Well, what if I required your undivided attention?"

"Do you?"

"Not right this second, but hypothetically speaking—"

"Alpha, command: _cease and desist_." Nearly all of the color had drained from Alpha's hologram, until he was little more than a handful of flurries. Brooding silence accompanied the dejected wilt. Gripping his pen hard enough to feel metal dig into his palm, the Director braced against the desk, towering over the tiny apparition. "If you are looking for _entertainment_ then I suggest you return to your duties to keep yourself occupied. And should you finish that on time, then feel free to spend the remainder of the evening pursuing the ship's online database. But I need—to—finish. So unless it is a matter that urgently requires my presence, _log off_."

Neither uttered a word, his stern glare met with a visor whose pixelated glass emoted better than a flesh in how _offended_ it looked. When it became apparent that silence was the only answer he would be getting the Director resumed reading, thoroughly done with the interruptions, thank-you-kindly.

"…Hey, Director, did I tell you about this new idiom I learned the other day? _Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back_."

Apparently the universe wasn't done with him.

The AI didn't flinch when that serrated stare bore down on him. "I'm familiar with it."

His need for painkillers was rising in direct proportion to the number of words coming out of the AI's mouth. "Cats and AI have a lot in common. Cats have nine lives; AI live approximately seven to nine years. Cats were worshipped by Ancient Egyptians; AI were worshipped by certain alien societies. And"—he tilted up his helmet—"we both have a tendency to get into things we shouldn't when we're bored."

Certainly not about to be cowed by a creature whose height (and value) was less than a dollar bill's, the Director spoke. "Are you planning on doing something that you _shouldn't_, Alpha?"

The hologram took a step closer, rebellious stance contrasting magnificently with his airy tone. "I'm just saying that if you're not going to pay attention to me then I guess I'll have to entertain myself. What's an AI with full access to all of the ship's faculties, from missiles to the sprinkler system, going to do?"

"You wouldn't—"

"Or maybe," he interrupted, false sweetness fading to something darker, "if my creator won't pay attention to me then I guess I could always hit up one of the agents." He could hear the razorblade smile in his voice. "They seem pretty nice for trained killers, don't you think?"

"_That is enough_—"

And just as suddenly stopped.

It was everything about his body language, what went _un_said, that finally caught his eye. The avid way he focused on the Director's reactions, the nature of the goading, the needling deliberately pulling him away from his work…

All for his attention.

He found uncertainty like lead weighing down his tongue, the question nearly lost on his lips. "You're…lonely?"

"Yes I'm fucking lonely," he spat. Like a supernova he exploded, fractal light radiating from the sapphire hologram. He threw his hands in the air. "This ship is staffed by over four hundred personnel, from Standard Issue soldiers to licensed health practitioners to mechanical engineers. And do you know how may I'm allowed to interact with? _Two_, not including the only other AI aboard the _Mother of Invention!_" He began to pace. "Whenever I'm not running maintenance or helping outline your schedule, I have nothing to do, so I surf the Internet. I have literally reached the point in my existence where my life can be measured by the net worth of YouTube videos." He stopped and whipped around to stare up at the Director, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I think I can sufficiently say that I have hit rock bottom, so _thank you_, Director, for sinking my battleship into the Mariana Trench. At least the inadequate lighting is less consistent than your _negligence_."

Being blindsided wasn't a sensation the Director was accustomed to, so when the impact finally hit, the understanding was as much a physical force as a car-crash. Speechlessness followed, and he could do little more than stare down at the AI seething on his desk, emanating hurt and betrayal.

_I'm glad to see you're spending your time wisely by spying on my agents._

Had that merely been him attempting to compensate for his isolation…?

He sank back into his chair and leaned forward. "Why did you not speak of the matter sooner?"

Alpha snorted, arms folded across his chest. He looked away. "I figured you would eventually notice. I guess you really do need those glasses, because you're blind."

After a brief internal debate the Director consciously pushed his papers aside. "How are you feeling right now?"

"Oh, so now you care."

"This is a serious question, Alpha. If an AI is left to its own devices long enough while under duress it can enter a premature state of rampancy."

Like the flip of a switch anger was swapped with indignation. "I'm not _thinking_ myself to death." Alpha huffed. "And if anything is going to drive me crazy, it'll probably be the ship's monotone paintjob. Seriously, did you ever consider a color scheme other than gray? There's an entire rainbow's worth of Skittles for you to choose from."

A hint of concern crept into his voice. "Alpha, please focus."

"I'm not rampant." He exhaled, in that second sounding tired. Vulnerable. "I just wish that my _creator _would take a few minutes out of his busy day to chat with me every now and then, and not just when he's worried that his precious tax-funded military hardware might get broken."

"I wasn't—" And knew—just as surely as he knew Florida would continue to submit requests for hanging plants in the common room—that he couldn't finish those words. "…My apologies, Alpha. I have been…stressed, as of late, and did not take your feelings into account."

"If the bottle of extra-strength aspirin on your nightstand is any indicator," muttered Alpha, though it sounded like a weary acknowledgement than a taunt.

Heavy silence followed. The pair continued to stare at each other uncertainly, the air of forced awkwardness hanging between them like a humid cloud. Loathe as the Director was to admit it, he…didn't know what to say, and instantly had to fight the reflex to reach up and rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, an idiosyncrasy he'd thought long-buried in his youth. If anything, the longer the quiet drew out, the more obvious it became that heart-to-hearts weren't a strong suit for either of them, and it showed. Painfully.

The apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree.

"Hey." To his surprise Alpha took a step closer. "Are you okay? I mean, it's not like I care or anything, but you've been averaging four-point-three hours of sleep a night, and you're showing signs of periorbital puffiness. Plus your blood pressure is 140/93. Just in case you forgot, I can't do CPR, so you might want to get that looked before you have a heart attack."

The non sequitur was so far left field that the Director felt his shoulders loosening, taking the tension and anger with it. Then the implication behind his words caught up, and he frowned. "You scanned me again, didn't you? That's an invasion of privacy, Alpha. I thought I told you to acquire a person's permission beforehand."

He made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "You mean the_ only_ _two_ persons I'm actually allowed to interact with, both of who already said no; but I ignored them anyway. 'Cause y'know. Reasons." Like a broken record the AI returned to his earlier topic. "Seriously though, you look like shit. You should see someone."

"I can't help but ponder the frightful headway we would make if you put as much effort into your job as you do undermining every command I give you."

"Speaking of my job"—Alpha indulged in a luxurious stretch—"I should probably inform you that Agent Maine was infighting with Agents Alabama and Oregon. I saw it over the surveillance feed."

_While I was spying on the agents_, the Director filled in the blanks, this time unable to stop himself from feeling the briefest pang of guilt. "I am fully aware." He motioned to the leaflet still off to the side. "The report I was reading before you interrupted my work concerned the disciplinary actions for said infighting."

"'Discipline'? What, like the stockades?"

"Hardly. I will be reprimanding him tomorrow morning, and starting then until the end of the second week, he will be on KP duty as punishment for the infraction."

"Something tells me the frequency of the infighting is just going to go up from there," Alpha observed, partly to himself. He glanced at the Director, sounding hopeful. "Can I watch?"

"No."

"Oh, come on. Everyone loves a public lynching."

"No, Alpha."

"All right, whatever." In hindsight perhaps he should have let Alpha fixate on Maine, because the second it became clear that was no longer an option he immediately boomeranged back to the subject of his health. "But like I was saying, I think you should go to Recovery. Maybe get checked out."

Fingers slipped up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. Quietly, he demurred, "I'm fine. There is no need to get yourself distracted with my health."

"I think you forgot a word in there," came the immediate rejoinder. "'Failing.' As in _failing_ health. You're stressed."

And perhaps while they were discussing the blatantly obvious they could go over the _A is for asshole _dogma his creation felt compelled to adhere to, the one the Director felt compelled to correct with a ruler. Diplomacy overruled his annoyance, faintly coupled with his surprise of Alpha's concern for his wellbeing. "Such is the nature of my work," he said. "It is an occupational hazard, one which I am accustomed to after so long."

"If you put your hand on a stove long enough you'll get 'accustomed' to that too. Doesn't mean you won't cause immense damage to yourself," Alpha reasoned, his logic infuriating. "All the more reason to _take a break."_

"Alpha—"

"Look, I even took the liberty of picking out a game!" He could all but hear the projectors in his room dry-heaving under the strain of projecting Alpha _and_ the holographic chessboard he conjured from the ether. Pale sapphire blue, much like himself, the replica materialized with a harmonic pop atop his desk, both sides' pieces already set. "See?" he crowed. "I _can_ think and plan ahead."

He'd always known that Alpha possessed holographic synthesis and could code his own renders, but this… It was a proficiency he hadn't expected to see for some time; _months_, at least. Every Artificial Intelligence Program had, to varying degrees, skills in holographic projection given that it was the basis for their own avatars. But developing their own separate holograms was an ability honed and refined over time, and depending on the construct and its function, ranged anywhere from 3D line graphs to _art_.

It didn't escape his attention, the time and effort Alpha must have invested into this pet project.

A chessboard was hardly art, of course; still, impressive nonetheless, even if it wasn't hard-light. The Director adjusted his glasses, well aware of Alpha's stare monitoring him. "…I thought 'chess ranked only slightly above sticking forks into an outlet.'"

"Did I say that?" Alpha wondered. "I think I might have deleted that memory."

"How convenient." Reaching out a hand, he lightly skimmed over the hologram. Pixels shimmered beneath his touch like pinpricks of crystal dust. "You hate this game," he pointed out, an unspoken question hovering in the statement.

A gesture he was becoming rapidly accustomed to, the Director watched Alpha shrug. Dryly the AI said, "I had to get your attention somehow. It was either this, or grow a second head. Maybe I should have started out with Plan B from the start, seeing as you don't do subtlety too well."

"Very funny."

"I thought so, too." The Director's mind strayed back to the projection on his desk, working over again and again the patience Alpha had to have dredged up to concentrate long enough on such a task. What this must have meant to him to invest so much time and effort into a game that he hated.

Alpha, growing tired with his silent contemplation, finally caved: "Please? Please, please, please, please, please? Just a game? One game? I swear, I'll let you get back to your paperwork once we're done, just take a break from the reports. They're not going anywhere. Besides, you owe me."

_Yes I'm fucking lonely._

_I just wish my creator would take a few minutes out of his day to chat with me._

Guilt won him over.

"_One_ game," he said, not that it did anything to dampen Alpha's enthusiasm or his little whoop of joy. Sitting a little straighter, he cleared the space in front of him of his supplies and personal effects. "It should not take long to finish."

Alpha flared a little more brightly at the veiled insult. "Is that a challenge, old man?"

"Merely stating the facts. You have never been adept at this game."

He anticipated a sarcastic comeback. What he hadn't counted on was Alpha flickering for a split-second, followed by an exact recording of his own voice. "_Arrogance is a rather unbecoming trait_." His speech jarred back to normal. "Sound familiar?"

Maybe Alpha _would_ be better suited for espionage. "You recorded me?"

"For when we have conversations like this." He could hear the smirk behind the holographic visor. "I gotta say, that was a lot more satisfying than I thought it would be."

He ignored that. "Would you like to have the first move?"

"Nah, you take it. You'll need it."

"Very well." An outstretched hand went to pick up a pawn, and although there was no way to physically interact with it, the piece moved accordingly at his instructed, "Pawn to E4."

Fifteen minutes later, and he realized it wasn't just his holograms that Alpha had been perfecting.

He grimaced, as if forced to swallow something bitter. Like his pride. "You've been improving," the Director observed, ignoring the way his conscience bucked at the admission.

"I…" Alpha hesitated. "I might have practiced with F.I.L.S.S. once or twice."

An understatement, if their battlefield of soldiers circling each other was anything to go by. Lips pursed, he frowned down at the knight and bishop advancing on his king, the vanguard of pawns an obvious trap to lure out his own queen, and silently damned the AI for his stubbornness.

Never let it be said that Alpha was above commitment.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," the AI simpered, while positioning his rook closer to checkmate, "I had to use a mnemonic to remember how the pieces move: _The rook is a crook, cuts corners like taxes; the pawns are your bitch and take moves up their asses_—"

"Must everything go back to profanity with you?"

"Dude, you don't _want_to hear my acronym for the knight."

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><p>I'd like to take a second to tip my hat to SpoonyAzul's <em>Good Morning, Director<em>, the fic that heavily inspired the debut chapter for my story. If you haven't read it already then I heartily suggest taking a gander. It's quite entertaining.


	2. Flowers for Algernon

Life has been pretty depressing as of late, so I wrote something a little cathartic to help cope with that.

I've always had a soft spot for Florida, so I decided to indulge. Takes place shortly after the _Mother of Invention_ crash-lands on the planet with all of the sim bases, Season 10 to Blood Gulch Chronicles transition. Told using snap-shots/one-word prompts.

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> The ebb and flow effect, a study of, conducted by Freelancer Agent Florida/Captain Butch Flowers.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Flowers for Algernon<strong>

**(one week)**

At first Florida thought time was their greatest enemy, because he couldn't find another explanation for how everything had fallen apart as quickly as it did.

**(trophic level)**

Being on the Leaderboard meant power. Power that came with a price. Only after you cut open your wrist, signed over your soul in blood, and personally shook hands with the devil did you realize that you couldn't afford your sanity and your hierarchy at the same time. And when the time came to repay that debt―as you crouched like a wounded animal, basked in the mechanical blue light of a metal tablet where so many others had come to worship―the Director always took away the things you needed most.

It was a lesson Florida learned when the summons came from the Counselor following the pandemonium of the "Freelancer Break-in," words whispered down empty halls by soldiers who were little more than nameless ghosts, forgotten faces unworthy of Leonard Church's presence. Wary eyes tracked his movements as the cobalt Freelancer made his way toward the bridge, their suspicion and anxiety bleeding together in an oil spill of reds and blacks, like a fragmented kaleidoscope. He was accustomed to such emotional showcasing; it was negative attention that the Top Four had been subjected to, equal parts respect for their place on the food chain mixed with the fear of stepping out of line.

What he wasn't accustomed to was seeing that attention directed at him.

**(usurper)**

The second lesson he learned, as a flickering blue figure materialized over the dais, was that governments and militaries were just big gangs, and until now, he had never been considered important enough to know his gang's secrets.

**(lacuna)**

"…badly damaged in an unrelated conflict. We tried to download a backed up copy of his default programming to compensate for the loss of data. Unfortunately, we cannot account for the pieces that are missing."

The Director pronounced the word "missing" the same way he pronounced "Article 12" on Wash's service record: with an air of cold detachment.

**(permian-triassic)**

It only made sense that when everything finally came full circle it would not be into the raging inferno of a dying star that the _Mother of Invention_ plunged, but a forlorn moon of ice and decay. If a hell did exist then Sidewinder certainly epitomized it, a lonely wasteland on the precipice of time where the frozen mausoleum of their ship would be immortalized. A perfectly preserved reminder of all that could have been, and the last will and testament of a species fighting a losing battle against its own extinction.

**(we all fall down)**

One day, there were ten of them. Now Project Freelancer was missing states the same way Recovery was missing numbers.

_Ignorance was unforgivable_. A mantra they were all sculpted in the likeness of as the Director chiseled away at them, throwing out the excess until all that remained was the perfect soldier―perfect in that every one of them was damaged yet able to still stand before their architect and hide their scars. So much a part of Florida now that he as he tried to fill in the gaps, to understand what had made the stone crumble into dust, he had a disturbingly hard time assuring himself that it was because he still cared and not because of trigger-reflexes. Still, the Freelancer turned over garden rocks and tried not cringe every time he found maggots crawling underneath.

They were all perfect at hiding their house keys, and Florida had never been good at picking locks.

Wyoming was still unconscious from his fight with York, concussed and lying in a hospital bed with an I.V. flushing saline into his vascular system, bandages swathing the left side of his head. Between meetings with internals and working alongside engineers in the ship's underbelly he'd only managed to visit his friend twice in the last three days. Two transverse fractures and minor hemorrhaging, according to the clipboard that he definitely didn't steal from Medical Records when the surgeon had his back turned. Lucky, according to Gamma, when Florida's mother hen tendencies got the better of him, caved in and asked the A.I. how bad it had really been. At least―in between the sleepless nights of mindless worry and too-tight handholding at Wyoming's bedside―it gave him the time to research jokes. So (_if_, his thoughts unhelpfully supplied) _when_ Wyoming finally did wake up he would have something new to laugh at.

Even less than he'd seen of his friend he'd seen of the Dakotas. Rumor had it that they were under suspicion for their actions during the break-in, if by "actions" one was referring to their ambivalence, how neither assisted nor attempted to stop York and Texas. It took quite a bit of favor-trading and innocent sweet talk with a Standard Issue soldier to get the information he wanted, but when he did, all that Florida learned was upon arriving at the scene the twins were found in a deadlock. Long pent-up tensions anyone could have seen escalating solar systems away had finally erupted. Once the dome shields and weapons were out of the picture the two had been carted into the Director's loving arms. From there the grapevine choked itself on its own ensnarement, and any information after that was conjecture and gossip. Rumors like "reassignment" and "new mission" kept circulating around, but that was it. What had caused them to focus on each other over the interlopers, or why neither had gone AWOL with Texas and York, no one seemed to know.

He'd trained with them for months, knew how they took their coffee, could give a powerpoint presentation on the abstractions behind South's tattoos or the reason why North read tattered comic books. A part of him wondered if he could have stopped it before it ever happened, only to be reminded of what bodies looked like when they didn't clear out of a hurricane's path. Altruism always yielded to self-preservation.

Carolina was the current elephant in the room, a role previously held by C.T. (ironically, if someone was depraved enough to take the time to foil their falls). At whose hands… A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold trickled down his spine. Maine in his own right was bellicose and disinclined to follow protocol at times, but even he wasn't without honor.

Or so Florida had thought.

Pausing by one of the portholes in the corridor, the man gazed out onto the cliffside. Ridiculous to the point of parody, caution tape sectioned off the spot where more than one life had begun and ended. Recovery Agents could be seen huddled together in the relentless gale, three others crouching along the edge outfitted with carabiners and rope, more than likely making that perilous climb under threat of court martial.

One dead, three unaccounted for. And out of all the MIAs posted on the bulletin, the one that had Florida fearful for the civilian populace of this planet was the man held hostage by the voice in his head.

Meanwhile in an isolated ward Washington hovered on the cusp of permanent removal from active duty (_suspended until further notice_ where his name should have been), while the medics tried to disentangle his and Epsilon's jigsaw pieces and figure out which memories belonged to which puzzle. It didn't help that there were pieces missing.

**(lovecraft)**

The Director's most recent attempt to take the ethics codes and wipe his shoes on them was shown to him the same way a child was shown a glass tank full of fermented dead frogs and grafting lines. Not a reassuring mental image, especially with RESTRICTED AREA – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and biohazard warnings plastered on every square inch of wall.

Stepping into the dimly lit room sent goosebumps down his arms, enhanced by his own apprehension and the intentionally low temperatures behind the sealed containment doors. Three sets of footsteps echoed between the walls as Florida was guided toward the back of the lab flanked by his superiors. A piece of heavy machinery hissed steam at him as they drew pass; only immense self-control kept the man's heart from trying to tunnel out of his ribcage and burst through his chest. Again, he swallowed his discomfort, choosing to focus on his breathing and how his suit's temperature regulation systems were doing a poor job at stopping his breath from fogging the glass. It was amazing how his companions wore only cotton and weren't suffering the same effects.

He wondered how much cold you had to slough through before you stopped feeling it.

Through the tinted visor he watched the Director step toward a panel, skeleton-key fingers punching in his authorization code. The lock pinged an affirmation back at him, and then the wall began sliding and rearranging. Like a flat Rubik's cube, entire panels separated at the seams and retracted back to make way for a descending cryogenic chamber. Neon gas and pressurized air vapor swirled behind the opaque glass, obscuring any view of its contents. Morbid curiosity bypassed his self-preservation instincts, and Florida leaned forward. He reached out a hand over the head of the container and swiped away a long streak with his glove, trying to picture what kinds of frogs the Director had prepped for dissection.

An armored face stared back.

**(fall in line)**

They had a new assignment for him.

**(last one standing)**

And when Florida tried to get Wyoming to listen to him, to get him to cling to the wreckage so they could search the turbulent waters together for other survivors (_we've drifted so far_), Wyoming slammed Florida against the bulkhead. Not enough pressure to actually hurt him but enough to keep him pinned. The other Freelancer loomed over him, his dark eyes the thunderhead that Florida had watched shipwreck their team.

"Stop it." Even fatigued and injured, with one arm in a sling, Wyoming could still immobilize Florida. Not that it mattered―he didn't struggle. "It's over. There's nothing left. Project Freelancer is finished."

"Brünnhilde hasn't sung yet. We can still salvage the situation, Reggie."

"You are not dragging me on some blasted rescue mission! We barely made it through the last one alive."

Not all of them did. "Which is exactly the point. It looks bad right now, but you still have your equipment, don't you, all we need is time to―"

A startled noise drew from Florida as Wyoming's grip tightened.

"Truly you cannot be this deluded. Get a hold of yourself." He obediently went quiet and slumped back into the wall, unresisting as Wyoming drew closer, his normally pleasant drawl nearly a growl. "Stop pretending you _care_. My equipment is not the answer you're looking for, never mind the technicalities of how we'd even go about sabotaging ourselves. Even time has constraints, and it won't bring back the dead."

Something burned in the back of Florida's throat.

Perhaps he wasn't as jaded and detached as he wished to project, because his face softened. Sharpness like a knife still cut through his features, but it at least blunted the edge somewhat. "There's nothing you can do, mate," he sighed, the words carrying a worn quality to them. Continuous repetition. "You're chasing ghosts."

Coming from the soldier who looked half dead.

Calloused hands roughly parted from his own and the sniper stepped back. There was a hesitation in his stance, a parting comment weighing down across his shoulders. Finally Wyoming spoke: "Escape while you still can, Butch. Save yourself. Before you join them, too."

Without another word Wyoming turned and strode away.

It was the last time Florida saw his friend.

**(elegy)**

His things were tidily packed away in his single duffle and his quarters swept bare, a sterile, mechanical cleanliness to the former warm, homey qualities Florida had kept. Not wanting to dwell on the one-sided farewell, he hitched his belongings over his shoulder and exited the room, finding his new armor a tad chaffy and unbroken-in. Just before he proceeded to hangar bay six for departure the Counselor intercepted him.

"An acknowledgment of your contributions," explained the Counselor, as he pushed a manilla envelope into his hands, "while in the service."

Puzzled, he pried open the crease and tipped its contents into his upturned palm, watching as the pentagram pressed coldly into his skin.

He wondered, much later, as he turned the Medal of Honor over and over in his hands, if it even counted, seeing as other soldiers died to receive that award, and he'd only died on paper.

**(mantra)**

"…are absolutely stupid. Why would they give us _bright blue_ armor? That's like painting a giant sign on your back saying 'please shoot my ass.' Why not green? Or brown? Who the hell is running this army? God," Church thunked his helmet into his palm and sighed, "I can't believe I volunteered for this crap."

For an A.I. allegedly the victim of reverse Multiple Personality Disorder, he was surprisingly emotive.

Then again, that might have been an understatement. By his tally that was the thirty-seventh swear in six minutes. A new record.

"I'd like to think that Command color-coded us for our convenience. Differentiating yourself from the enemy is important. After all, we don't want to have any accidents of friendly fire," replied Florida as he lightly swung his legs against his seat.

Across from him the sim trooper shrugged, a dismissive noise catching in the back of his throat. Before he could give his two cents on battlefield etiquette the dropship violently lurched. Heavy tremors passed through the titanium-alloy hull, and Church swore as he frantically grabbed for the bar over his head and clung to it with metal-denting force.

"Sorry for the rough ride, fellas." How strange it was to hear the pilot's voice come out as masculine, with a heavy colony-world accent, than the familiar snappy one-liners. "We've hit a bit o' turbulence. Nothing this ship can't handle. Just strap yourselves on in back there and make yourselves comfy."

Four-Seven-Niner would never have let something like _turbulence_ impede her.

"And why the hell are they relocating me, anyway?" Church continued, simmering determinedly in his seat. "I mean, yeah, sure, the Sidewinder base got nailed, but they didn't have to up and move one guy for that. Could've just left me there in my personal icebox. It wasn't like I was in any danger. That Freelancer left me alive, and really, why isn't the space army more worried about a psycho-bitch with invisibility than a bunch of guys in red yelling at me from across the tundra? Seriously, I don't…"

The part of Florida not bound by his orders considered how the Alpha would react if he told him that his time spent on Sidewinder was a synthetic memory.

And realized, with a pang of guilt, that the lie was kinder.

"Look on the bright side," he chirped, "at least it'll be a nice change of scenery. No more power outages from freak blizzards, no more fuel freezing over when the temperature drops below zero, and no more cancelled 5:00 AM morning laps around the base!"

Church gave him a very serious stare. "You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

In spite of himself Florida laughed. "Well, maybe a little. Remember, your captain always has your best interests at heart. So when he tells you that the pull-up bar is starting to look a little neglected and dusty…"

"I dial down the complaining to a minimum and start coughing up phlegm until he gives me a sick day," he said. "And threaten to lick all of the doorknobs in the base until the desired effect is achieved."

"That wasn't the answer I was looking for, but that's close enough for now."

They sat in companionable silence for another five minutes.

On the bright side, at least he wouldn't be bored. Or alone.

"Red, huh? So what, they're communists?" He could hear the eye-roll in the sim trooper's tone. "No wonder Command wants us to kill them."

**(closure)**

"When Command said they were gonna send us to 'defend valuable strategic territory from the enemy,'" Tucker mused, "do you think they meant somewhere other than a _box canyon_ in the middle of nowhere?"

The echoes rebounded off of the cliffside from the powerful acoustics. Invisible voices shouted back until _nowhere_ whispered distantly at them from across the valley.

_Clink._ Tucker and Church peered over the ledge they were currently sitting on to watch the pebble clatter to the bottom.

"Or maybe"―_clink_―"they mixed up our flights, and right now some really confused quarrymen are trying to fight off alien hordes with pickaxes."

"Nope." This time the stone sailed an impressive forty feet through the air before it pitched forward and hit the dirt. Church had a surprisingly good arm. "This is pretty much exactly how I imagined it. Flying out to the most undesirable piece of real estate in the galaxy and finding one other guy stationed here with the base a complete wreck."

To his credit, Tucker did sound contrite. Just not contrite enough for Church's tastes. "Hey, it's not like I was expecting company! Command didn't tell me they were sending you guys out here!"

"Seriously? You had empty soda bottles and used tissues all over the living room! Not even four feet from the trashcan."

"A guy has needs."

"And he has a trashcan. Which he _didn't bother to use_."

"That's not true."

"Tucker, using it to replace the broken table leg doesn't count."

"Are you really going to bitch about it? You're not the one cleaning up."

Church jolted upright and made a strangled hissing noise. "Don't jinx it! Captain Flowers has got, like, superhuman hearing. He'll find us."

Tucker pointed to the steadily-accumulating pile of rocks at the base of their cliff: "And you don't think he heard all of that?"

"…Shut up."

The momentary reprieve in conversation allowed the sounds of explosions and bickering to reach their end of the canyon. By day two both Blues had been conditioned to respond to the noise the same way Pavlov's dogs responded to a bell (the word "bell" replaced with "polka-style ranchera music").

"And to complete your all-expenses-taxed, unfurnished, one-room summer home," Church growled, "the neighborhood comes with its very own enemy bunker, filled with trigger-happy assholes. Welcome to Blood Gulch, prospective buyer!"

Tucker whistled. "That was scary accurate. You should have done sales pitches for a living."

"Yeah, well," Church huffed, and winded back his arm, stone nestled in his palm like a catapult, "maybe once my contract is up I'll try selling cardboard boxes to hobos."

He gave a hard toss, and the two soldiers watched as the rock came back down―

Nearly on Flowers' head.

The pair gulped.

"There you two are! I've been turning this place upside down trying to find you." Chipper tone in place, he peered up at them with a hand shielding his visor from the glare of the sun. "While I admire your commitment to practicing your grenade-throws, you should really be more careful. That could've hit me!"

Neither dare utter a sound, especially not when Flowers reached behind him and held out two brooms, one in each outstretched hand like bloodstained bayonets.

"I thought you two could use a break from your training and have some good old-fashioned commander-subordinate bonding. And what better way to build unit cohesion than by cleaning our new base together?"

"Shit."

"Damn it."

**(broken record)**

"You call that a flag? I've seen boxers blowing in the breeze worthier of being saluted than that sorry loincloth on a toothpick!"

"If you think it sucks so much then why the hell do you keep trying to steal it?"

"No Blue flag will fly in this canyon while I'm still alive and able to order my team to risk their lives destroying it!"

"Excellent plan, sir."

"'Excellent plan'? He's sending us to our deaths for a fucking dish towel! I'm not getting shot for that!"

"Either shot by the enemy or shot by your commanding officer. Take your pick, dirtbag."

"Hey, assholes, if you're going to stand and argue then _get off our front lawn_."

The vitriol became endearing after a while.

**(stranger in a strange land)**

It was easy to forget―with Flower's mind hardwired to automatically calculate the seconds between each footfall, to gauge the distance between his rifle sights and his next target, to pinpoint its trajectory, to estimate the time it would take for the bullet to cover the distance, to see soldier boys crumpling to the earth dead before they hit the ground―that he wasn't one of them.

It was even easier to remember when he realized that he'd already aligned his crosshairs on one of the Reds from less than a klik away, and his finger hovered over the sensitive trigger.

It would take a long time before he started using the viewfinder as a telescope, and not a horoscope. For now it was all he could do to lower the weapon and not put bullets through their heads, like he'd done to so many other sim troopers before them.

**(pompeii)**

The rubble, or our sins?

**(help)**

Soft, panicked noises and the rustle of blankets drew Flowers out of his sleep.

Blinking exhaustion and bad memories out of his eyes, the man quietly sat up, pushing the comforter off himself in the same motion. Across the barracks Flowers could make out the vaguely-discernable shape of someone thrashing intermittently, entangling themselves in the sheets with every kick.

Tonight marked the second week stationed at FPS Outpost 1-A. A fortnight's worth of time adjusting from the shoot-dodge-counter-run-bleed-cacophony of his former job, to the monotonous, almost tranquil lull of Blood Gulch.

There were some things that were taking longer to adjust to.

Footsteps light, the ex-Freelancer slipped from his bunk and padded over the floorspace, only stilling once when Tucker snored. In three lengthy strides he reached Church's bed; cautiously, a hand reached out and gently grabbed Church's bicep, giving the (_biomechanical grown-in-a-petri-dish_) body a careful shake.

"Church? Church, wake up. Come on back, kid, it's okay. Easy."

As suddenly as a thunderclap Church bolted upright. Bright, panicked eyes darted around the room, glassy and only half-aware of the disorienting shift to reality. The damp sheen of perspiration shone on his skin, t-shirt sticking to his rapidly heaving chest. Finally the touch on his arm broke through his fight/flight reflex, and the sim trooper relaxed, slumping against his pillow.

"Didn't mean to wake you up." Gravel sandpapered his throat with every word.

Flowers subconsciously eased his grip, tracing reassuring circles with his thumb against the warm skin. For once Church didn't protest the contact. "It's okay. I've always been a light sleeper." Not technically a lie, anyway. "Another nightmare?" he asked. He knew Church's stability was questionable at best, and the recursion glitches were manifesting when the A.I.'s guard fell.

"Yeah." The arm not being held reached up, fingers digging at his eyes and removing the last vestige of the dream. His features had regained some composure, but a wary, haunted shadow still clung to his face. Church frowned. "I can't remember it, though. I never can."

"All for the better," Flowers soothed, meaning it.

A beat of heavy silence.

"Thanks," Church said at last.

"You're quite welcome." Hearing Church's heart rate slow to normal levels Flowers began to pull his hand away, not wanting to prolong his subordinate's discomfort. To his surprise the smaller soldier lashed at the appendage, almost before he could stop himself, and tugged the limb closer to his chest.

"Can you…" He averted his gaze. Shame and self-loathing soured the question. "Can you…stay? Just for a little bit?"

No hesitation. "Of course I can." Flowers was already making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed. As he settled in for the vigil Church cleared his throat.

"Just don't tell Tucker, okay?" Church pulled a face. "He'd never let me live it down."

Overgrown hair was pushed from his face, braided ponytail sloping down his back as he lifted his index finger to his lips. Even in the dark he could see Church rolling his eyes. "It'll be our little secret."

It was the least dangerous secret Flowers had.

**(odds are)**

And for the first time in a while, Flowers knew everything would be all right.

* * *

><p>Next time I update you'll get something cute. Possibly with Theta. Possibly-definitely with Theta.<p> 


	3. Tailwind

This chapter is getting a part two because of how unnecessarily long it is. Blame it on Theta. He's my Achilles' heel.

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong> Theta attempts to expand his repertoire of skills. Neither North nor Four-Seven-Niner are impressed.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: Tailwind<strong>

The first time it happened Theta didn't have a word for it, so he didn't really think about it much.

Grifball games offered that highly-coveted reprieve only rarely found in the eye of Hurricane Freelancer, a temporary escape from looping mental images of teammates' limbs detaching from the torso in a spray of viscera. So when matches were scheduled news spread like wildfire, and like a swarm of multicolored moths they flocked to the communal rec room. Superfluous things like spelunking in someone's lower back to remove shrapnel couldn't deter the long-time veterans (nor could the sizable betting pool riding on the outcome of the match).

So that was how North ended up playing escort to Theta, South, and South's reinforced steel-ceramic crutches, which she threatened to hit him with if he didn't sneak her out of Recovery.

"Left! Left! Go _left_ for fuck's sake! He's feinting, can't you see that you overpaid steroid-sucking―"

"You know," York said. The locksmith, still outfitted in several hundred pounds of redundant circuitry and metal plating, stretched into Wash's personal space, earning himself a shove and halfhearted protest. "Some of us like watching our shows without having them narrated. It's bad enough when Delta tries to MC the game with statistical play-by-plays."

"Yeah, and without him you wouldn't have an eye to watch the game, so bite me," grunted South. North, sitting cross-legged next to his sister, pushed himself upright, careful not to disturb the little A.I. sitting on his knee. It wasn't really South's fault, with her being heavily-medicated and not exactly in any position to filter her mouth, but a sore spot was still a sore spot.

Chalk it up to exhaustion and the seven beer cans littered in front of the sofa that York didn't try to gut South like a fish. Instead, he waved away the barbed comment and propped his feet atop the coffee table, nudging his helmet aside with his boot. "Don't have to when I've got a loving team leader who'll do it for me. Carolina?"

"Play nice, children," Carolina responded. Not once did she glance up from her island of solitude in the corner, where she was hunched over a mission statement. Theta had figured out long ago that her presence was more for crowd control than it was out of actual desire to watch "sweaty athletes with a vendetta against their own bones pound themselves into funny-colored smears."

She brushed a stray lock of red hair from her face. "And I'm not your personal attack dog, York."

"Yeah," York amicably agreed, and shifted in his seat, receiving a glare from Wash, "but I can't do it, and I need someone to."

"That's because you're _drunk_, you ass."

"Speakin' of getting drunk, we need a new case." Oregon's declaration had heads turning to see the dejected and wilted-looking plastic rings being hoisted into the air.

"And maybe a keg for York while you're at it." Wash kicked at the mini congregation of cans under York's legs, scattering them across the floor. The din earned several "shut ups" from the room at large, including South, hypocritically enough.

Green light flashed over the furniture, and Theta waved at Delta when the other A.I. materialized beside Oregon. "I would strongly advise you against consuming additional drinks, given your already substantial blood-alcohol level―"

"'M barely buzzed." There was something distinctly funny about watching him mother hen the agents, especially when he wasn't aware he was even doing it. "Besides," chirped Oregon, his lack of concern seeming to annoy Delta, "we're celebratin'."

"Celebrating what?"

"Score! And Team Slipspace falls behind, 0 – 5. You fuckers better be ready to pay up!" South crowed.

"That." Ignoring Delta's withering stare, Oregon raised his empty can. "Cheers to a resoundin' victory, gentlemen."

"You're not supposed to toast on an empty glass," North mused, his attention divided between the argument, the game, and his sister, who was now leaning heavily on his shoulder. "It's supposed to be bad luck."

"Luck, as a concept, does not exist, given its abstract and unquantifiable properties―"

"So who's gonna be the bar wench this time?" Nothing snapped South out of her stupor faster than the promise of alcohol. She prodded North in the ribs. "C'mon, North."

"The bar wench resigned. He's currently making minimum wage as a babysitter."

"My crutches want a refill."

"Your crutches don't need more beer on top of 400 mg of painkillers."

"Whoever drank the most from the last pack should get it." As Wash spoke he glared pointedly at York. It didn't escape Theta's attention that the team Wash had bet on was losing. It also didn't escape his attention that York―who had been slowly claiming larger and larger sections of the couch and relegating Wash to the soiled, stained edge―was a convenient outlet. "York."

At the sound of his name the infiltrator tore his attention away from the congealed and gummed up blood he'd determinedly been picking out of his armor. "I didn't realize I had volunteered."

"Volunteering has nothing to do with it," replied Wash sweetly. "Proportion, however, does."

"Either get the drinks or shut up already, I can't hear the game!" barked someone from the back of the room. Two or three other Freelancers echoed the sentiment.

Ever the philanthropist, York hopped to his feet and began navigating his way toward the door, exaggeratedly stepping over the twins' legs. "All right, all right, next round's on me." And that was as far as he got before someone opened the door from the other side and slammed it into his face.

"Hi, guys!" Iowa poked his head into the room, a six-pack tucked under his arm. "Sorry I'm late, the Counselor's meeting took longer than I thought it would. Did I miss the first half of the―?" A quiet moan interrupted his rambling; only then did Iowa look down at the half-crumpled figure curled on the floor, his hands cupped over his face. "Holy shit, is he okay?"

Unperturbed by the sight of her teammate in the fetal position, South beckoned Iowa―more specifically, the beer―into the room. "Nah, he's fine. Big baby's still crying over the boo-boos Maine gave him early. Sit down, join the party."

"Um, North? I think his nose is broken." Seconds before North had scrambled to his feet ("Hey!" South protested as she watched her headrest walk off) Theta popped up near York's shoulders and ran a brief diagnostic scan. He nervously flickered as North crouched and levered York into a sitting position. "I think it's _definitely_ broken."

"Gib me dome breathing room, Jeethus, North." It was hard to suppress his amusement at the way York's voice turned all funny when he pinched his nose. Wet blood glistened on his knuckles, and York groaned, mostly in exasperation, as he tipped his head back to stem the gush. "You assholes duck."

And then there was Delta. With what Theta could only describe as a long-suffering sigh he informed his handler, "Activating healing unit."

"Stob it, D, ith just a broken nose." Gingerly he pulled his fingers away from the cartilage, making a face at the coppery odor. "Besides," York grimaced, "you're not supposed to be using that equipment off-field. Protocol says―"

"―that if my agent is injured I should rectify the damage," Delta, blandly, remarkably, interrupted him. "A minor nasal fracture counts as an injury, however minute it may be. Utilizing the healing unit is far more efficient than having you wandering the halls after hours in your inebriated condition attempting to walk to Recovery. Please lie back against a flat surface and allow the clotting agents to take effect." Almost chidingly, he remarked, "Despite Agent Carolina's assessment about your level of intoxication, you are not so impaired as to have lost complete cognition, York."

York laughed, and a fresh trickle of blood beaded down his chin. "Always watching out for me."

"I am here to assist."

"For the love of fuck-mothering Christ," bawled Ohio, "shut _up_ already!"

Very minutely Carolina shifted in her chair, and the room suddenly returned to its former state of order.

As North settled beside his sister and pilfered a guzzle from her can, Theta couldn't help but admire his brother's deceptively vigilant watch over York, the way he steadfastly glowed at York's shoulder while his agent leaned against the back wall and relaxed under the pain meds. Yet even as he tried to focus on the scores, tried to pay attention to the whoops of glee from South and groans of disappointment from Wash, Theta couldn't ignore the way it _bothered_ him how Delta could take care of his human like that, and he couldn't.

* * *

><p>The second time Theta noticed it, he realized the feeling was associated exclusively with his brothers.<p>

"Mission log―status update. Time: 18:37, approximately seventy-six hours since we arrived at our drop-off point. No sign of target. The enemy has no knowledge of our presence. Long-range radio interference still persistent from an incoming storm cell, moving ENE at roughly 56°. Weather variables still a possible threat to the primary objective. Temperature: my bloody piss froze last night, so I'd wager it's pretty damn―"

"_Wyoming_."

"Right, right. Temperature last recorded at -11° Celsius. No major injuries to report. End log entry."

The sniper lowered his hand from his helmet and gave his wrist a mild flick, as if trying to dispel the persistent cold that was slowly creeping into his joints. Even the MJOLNIR's temperature-regulation systems were having a hard time combating the extreme subzero conditions, and Theta knew North felt it as acutely as his companion did. Maybe a little less so, if Gamma's constant _please Reggie go see the medical staff for treatment your arthritis isn't going to go away with blunt force trauma_ was anything to go by.

"I know I need to have this conversation with South every time we go on missions, but I'm pretty sure you don't need to be told that a little professionalism goes a long way," North told him. Theta shifted his attention away from the edge of the cliff, turning in time to glimpse what looked like a ripple across the expanse of rock. Were it not for the fact North's body temperature just barely registered on his thermals he wouldn't have been able to pinpoint him. Purple with green accents and off-white were colors that stood out a bit too well on the bleak color palette of grays, browns, and blacks that painted Tribute's mountains. And with the camouflage and invisibility units already registered with other field agents, the Director opted for Plan B.

Which was exactly why Theta didn't freak out when Wyoming stretched, and a pair of spray-painted arms sprouted out of a nearby rock. "Being a professional doesn't mean I can't add a personal touch."

"You do remember that the Director listens to those logs, right?"

"So do I. Which means if I have to suffer through the replays then they ought to offer more than barometric pressure readouts. He is a grown man, has heard vulgarity worse than mine, I'm sure, if he's worked with marines for as long as his profile says he has. Besides," he drawled. SRS99D-S2 AM rifle in his lap, he calmly tasked to adjusting his sights. "I find that it helps ground one's sense of reality. I don't fancy cashing in my pension ten years from now and spending it all on a long-sleeved white jacket."

Any insight North was about to offer regarding that philosophy died on his lips. Thunder roared in the canyon, low, lashing, like tidal waves assaulting breakers. The Freelancers tensed.

"Brace yourself!" North shouted. Seconds later the wind hit.

Theta wasn't actually affected by it. Solid mass and tangible forces phased through his hologram; laws of physics didn't apply to Artificial Intelligence.

Didn't make the gale any less terrifying. Not as he watched North flatten himself against the schist, strap his equipment down and use the weight of his armor as an anchor. Pebbles clattered down the dizzying height of the cliffside in a crescendo lost to the screaming wind.

"I know Command said the wind up here was bad, but this is ridiculous!" It took North yelling almost at full volume to compete with the gale. Beside him Wyoming was digging his fingers into a crevice.

"Couldn't _imagine_ why the Insurrection built a base here."

Even with the squall whipping around him North laughed, a noise that to Theta sounded somewhat manic. He wondered if Wyoming's remark on insanity held any truth, and immediately shut down on that train of thought, choosing instead to huddle under the lean-to shape of North's armpit. "Why? Did you have somewhere else in mind?"

"I hear Brisbane is lovely this time of year!"

Something spiked on his thermal radar. Pushing his apprehension aside, Theta projected himself along the rim and scanned the gully yawning below. Three hundred yards above the Insurrectionist compound the leathery, membranous wings of a Forerunner bird unfurled, the massive animal emerging from beneath the crags; a second of hesitation, before it lunged into the wind. It made it about ten feet before the gale nearly slammed it back into the cliffs. With a disdainful screech the creature retreated to its eyrie.

Metal scraped against rock, and Theta turned, staring at his own reflection in North's visor as the sharpshooter crawled forward to get a closer look.

"The only thing about this climate that's consistent is its inconsistency," Wyoming muttered. As if to prove his point the wind tapered to a strong breeze. "It fluctuates too much. Clear sights won't mean a thing if we can't gauge wind speed."

"It's not North's fault he dropped the anemometer!" Theta protested hotly. He felt North stiffen at the reminder.

The second sniper turned to regard him.

"It is," he enunciated, "_precisely_ North's fault that our only instrument is now lying at the bottom of a gorge."

Theta could picture North's narrow-eyed look through the tinted glass. "I'm not going to keep apologizing for that, Wyoming. It was an accident." He returned to surveying the landscape. "We've made due without equipment before. We can use environmental indicators to calculate windage."

"While I'm all for the boy scout method, tell me, Beaufort"―he swept a hand out toward the canyon―"what signs are we supposed to be measuring? The branches swaying in the nonexistent trees? There isn't any foliage up here."

"If the wind is strong enough to dislodge debris and cause minor rockslides we'll at least know it's over thirty knots."

"If we have wind strong enough to send boulders flying through the air we'll have more than inaccurate trajectory to worry about!"

Heat flared on his long-range sensors, and this time when Theta signaled to North he wasn't mistaken.

"_There she is."_ Wyoming tapped into the inter-team channel. Breathed exhilaration against the padding inside his helmet. Percussive drumstrokes climbed in North's chest, his adrenaline a live-wire, and Theta homed in on the ant-sized specks exiting the infrastructure. Low-level escorts flanked their captain, an ODST beget in red and ebony accents. One of many ornate chess pieces that the Director wanted removed from the board.

"_Target acquired_," North radioed. His finger hovered over the trigger.

Air whistled past their heads, and within seconds North was fighting to keep the gun from being wrenched out of his hands.

Theta was a flurry of calculations and analyses and electrical pulses in the back of his agent's head, frantically scrambling to assess wind speed and scrapping each idea with a helplessness difficult to shelve. Mind and machine pushed for solutions to hit the target without weather compromising them, the chimera straining its stitches and Theta knew North's façade of calm was unravelling at its seams. Technology limited his capabilities, and Theta dimmed, distressed, fidgeting, watching the window of opportunity walking out of range miles beneath them. He couldn't hit her._ He couldn't hit her_.

Sky blue light flashed beyond North's shoulder. Theta didn't have the time to turn and look before the harsh snap of a rifle echoed off the cliffs, and on the catwalk below their target fell. All within .001 of a second.

"_Right_." Wyoming lowered his rifle, shoulders tensing up against the vicious breeze. Fragile wisps of smoke funneled from the muzzle, snatched by the wind. "_That about does it. Time to go, mate_." Gamma watched as his agent went about quickly securing their things, and North followed suit, grabbing his gear and hauling ass with speed a cheetah would be proud of.

It was only twenty minutes later, after North called extraction and they were aboard the dropship, did he finally ask the question both of them badly wanted an answer to. "How did you do it?"

Wyoming―who had been bickering good-naturedly with his A.I.―paused, and shifted to face them. "Pardon?"

With a harmonic _pop_ Theta projected on the seat one over from North's, and dangled his legs over the edge. "How did you hit her without the wind messing up your velocity?" Then, for good measure, he added, "I tried, but I couldn't figure it out." It was_ really_ important they understood that.

Didn't make the reminder any less uncomfortable.

"Ah. That." There was a meaningful pause, as the two exchanged a quick look. "Not my doing, actually. That was Gamma's handiwork."

Gamma flared a little at the attention. "I have been running internal calculations since we arrived, assuming this would be a possible variable. I assigned values to winds by comparing and contrasting the strength of the gusts to records that I downloaded prior to leaving the ship." His expressionless monotone made it hard to pin down his emotions, but something didn't sound right with that. Theta shrugged it off. "It was fortunate timing that our target came into view just as I finished cross-referencing my findings."

North nodded, once, and something inside of Theta physically hurt. He didn't want Gamma to have gotten that praise, or to have thought of that idea. He should have been just as good, just as capable of meeting those standards.

The tiny figure glanced away, silently relieved that he hid his feelings well enough that hours later North never broached it. North shouldn't have to worry about stupid things like his feelings. Especially when the things they concerned were _his_ fault.

* * *

><p>The third time Theta felt it, he realized it was jealousy.<p>

"…an entire festival dedicated just to them! They do crossettes and diadems and peonies and all sorts of really complex ones. I read an article on it yesterday." The purple A.I. happily kicked his skateboard in little circles around North, who was sitting on the locker room bench stripping his armor. "I think it's called Sumidagawa."

"I didn't know that." The Freelancer glanced up. "Have you been doing research on your own?"

"A little," he confessed, as he dug his heel in, bringing the longboard to a stop and pinwheeling his arms. "Since my connection to the Shipnet is restricted to my server access, F.I.L.S.S. has been helping me find stuff. She gave me a bunch of 'approved websites' on the subject."

"Any videos?"

"Lots!"

It took a second to concentrate but Theta conjured up the hologram. A starburst of hypnotic red and blue rings cheerfully whistled and crackled into existence, and North recoiled in alarm. The nebulae gave one last pulse and dusted into fine pinpricks before fading away. The A.I. peered at his human with a cautious hopefulness. "That one's called _ondori no ha_," Theta told North proudly. "Do you like it?"

"It's really…loud." Like a dog shaking water from its fur North shook his head. "A little warning next time would be nice."

The discomfort was there, a dull vibration spiderwebbing across nerves, so Theta didn't immediately notice it until he piggybacked the interface and felt the second-hand pain bleed into the synaptic wires. And this time it was _guilt_ and _I'm sorry_ and _accident_ he flooded North's senses with, bombarded, really, remembering a bit too late that loud noise was painful to the human eardrum.

It was sometimes easy to forget that while they shared a mind North's body was still his own, and extremely sensitive to stimuli.

"It's okay, Theta." No hint of anger or accusation, just the unflappable calm. North smiled around the dull pain, and resumed shedding his gear. "That one looked great. I didn't see any lags or disturbances this time, and it's bigger than before, isn't it?"

"Definitely bigger," he said, simultaneously relieved and pleased by the change in topic. "The Counselor said that as a fragment I'll never be able to do what a real Smart A.I. can, but I can still improve my holograms."

The chestpiece slid off the nano-composite bodysuit into the steadily-accumulating pile of purple shelling. Plasma burns scalded the pectoral plate. Another near miss, to be screened through Armor Processing. "You shouldn't compare yourself to anyone's skills but your own," North told him, the advice sounding well-worn. "You're improving and you're improving _well_, and that's what matters."

Personally Theta disagreed, but chose not to voice that thought. "Watching all those videos helps me design renders for the fireworks. But it's hard to get a good grasp on dimensions and color saturation after everything's been filtered and edited through a computer."

"The last time I checked firecrackers and sparklers were still considered fire hazards." North gave a rueful laugh, tugging the second boot off with a satisfactory grunt. Once set aside on the floor he gave in to temptation, wiggling his toes simply because the fresh air felt good after hours of being cooped up in a fully-sealed life-support system. Well, not completely fresh, Theta noted after the readings came back on the bacterial scan he immediately regretted. Maybe the Director would agree with the _ignorance is bliss_ mindset if he knew how many microorganisms were breeding on the floor.

Apparently he transmitted that, because North hastily pulled his feet onto the bench.

"That hasn't stopped people from smuggling contraband before." There was a decidedly _measured_ pause before he asked, "When you get time off for shore leave you're allowed to choose where to be sent, right?"

"That…" North considered, his gaze fixed on a ceiling pipe. "…depends. I think leave destinations depend on where the ship is stationed at the time. I doubt they would fly one volunteer halfway across the galaxy just because he wants to vacation at Zanzibar."

"Records say that we've visited Earth in the past."

"For dry dock mostly. The ship never actually lands on the planet."

"But we go there sometimes, right?"

"Yeah. I guess we do, huh."

"…Did you know the ship is scheduled to pass through the Sol System in seven months from now?"

"No," North answered, now sporting a look usually reserved for whenever York was about to do something either against regs, incredibly stupid, or both. "I didn't know that."

"Did you know," Theta continued, "that the registered date for your shore leave is also in seven months from now?"

Both brows went up on the sharpshooter's forehead. "That I did know."

"…Didn't South say that you took Japanese in college?" he asked.

North almost laughed. Probably would have tussled his hair, too. "First of all, kiddo, it was Mandarin Chinese. Secondly, we both failed the class. Thirdly, I'm not going to Japan. Ever." He didn't miss the disappointed flicker, because the sharpshooter leaned forward, upturned hand extended, and Theta did everything he could to convey feet-dragging as he reluctantly shuffled onto his palm. "Theta… You know you can't come with me, right? Military hardware isn't allowed in a civilian environment."

Theta emulated a whine. "Are you sure we can't go? Please? I want to see _real_ fireworks."

He frowned. "Honestly I don't know. Unless it was like Maine's case, where he needs his A.I. for medical reasons. But the only thing you do remotely 'medical' is administer biofoam injectors in battle. And they won't let me take my armor off the ship for shore leave."

"You could always say that you need me as a translator." When North blinked at him, Theta lightly suggested, "Like, if you were going to a foreign country and didn't know their language…"

This time North did laugh, with a sort of approval and appreciation for the underhandedness. "Oh, like hell no," he said, "you are not _loopholing _your way into Asia. Do you have any idea what the Director would say if you―"

The locker room door slid open.

"―need to give it more time! The Strength Boost Armor Enhancement is neither infallible nor indestructible, you are simply overtaxing the power cell beyond its limits. Even equipment run by A.I. has constraints, and I do believe I said as much before you chose to ignore me and nearly electrocuted yourself―"

Maine responded with an irritable hiss. The berserker paid zero heed to his teammate and the purple A.I. as he stomped past, heavy boots clattering against the metal floor. Behind him Sigma followed, holographic flames curling and whipping about his silhouette, a cloak made of phoenix ash. There was a second where Sigma nearly didn't acknowledge their plebian existences either, only to pause, stop, and nod to them in turn. "Agent North. Theta." And then double-timed after Maine.

They heard something slam into another something. A fist into a wall, if Theta had to guess. And one of the somethings probably broke the other something. He hoped it was the wall.

"Are you going to talk to him?" he demanded.

This was the part where Theta wanted North to do something besides open his locker and pull out a towel and bottle of shampoo. "There's nothing I really can do, Theta," was the answer he got instead, still frustrating to hear no matter how gently North phrased it. He began unzipping the bodysuit. "If it's a problem with training then Sigma's got it handled."

"But shouldn't we at least let him know we're worried?"

"That's probably the worst thing to do right now." Towel wrapped around his waist, North closed his locker and turned in the direction of the shower stalls. Theta followed at his shoulder, unable to help staring toward the sounds of the faint, if heated discussion―half a discussion really, since Sigma was doing all the talking. "Maine doesn't see comfort as well-meaning; more like _de_meaning. It's better to let him get it out of his system." When Theta continued to lag behind North glanced at him. "I'll tell Carolina later, I promise. And Wash. You trust me, right?"

"I trust you," the A.I. echoed, sincerely, if not a little dejectedly.

"He'll be fine, kiddo." North hung his towel on the rack outside the stall, saying as he disappeared behind the curtains, "Do you want to watch _Guardians of the Galaxy_ later?"

"You got it?" asked Theta. He clung to the welcome distraction.

"Yeah," came the reply, distorted over the sounds of the running tap. Water hissed against the tiles, straining his words. "Had to trade some favors, but Alaska finally forked it up. We can hijack the rec room tonight. Just give me five minutes, okay?"

"Five minutes," Theta solemnly agreed. That was all the time he needed.

He waited until North began to hum off-key before he testingly drifted a few feet off. When the agent didn't say anything Theta dissolved his hologram and projected at the other end of the room. Just behind the waste bin in the corner, watching as Agent Maine stalked in a jagged line down the row of lockers. Sigma hovered nearby.

"You are not as compromised by your injuries as you would have yourself believe. If you were, the Director would not have cleared you for the briefing on Wednesday, nor the subsequent mission," Sigma continued. "You are healing, at an exceptional rate I might add. If you'd like I could play the recording of Dr. Ross saying as much."

When Maine threw the helmet it phased through Sigma and bounced onto the floor. He snarled.

"I am not 'patronizing' you." Maine gave a low, threatening growl, looking for all the world like he'd love nothing more than to strangle his A.I. Instead he continued to pace. "Nor have I since the neural sync-up. I believe there is some wisdom in not antagonizing the person with whom you share a forced acquaintance."

The pantherine noise was followed by an accusatory stare.

"The interface is two-way. You _know_ nothing up to this point has been a charade," came the admonishment, neutrality bleeding into an emotion he couldn't quite pin. "I believe lying is more to Gamma's taste."

Whatever he meant by that it carried weight, stilling Maine in his tracks. Little good that did, because the man proceeded to ram his knuckles into the wall. It buckled centimeters in against the force. Sigma flared, red-tinged, and popped up to his right.

"Boxer's fracture sustained on the fourth metacarpal, minor." His lips thinned in disapproval. "If you had any doubts about being suspended from the mission before, rest assured. I suppose congratulations are in order―"

More astonishing than the open sarcasm was the haymaker that distorted his hologram as it swung through empty space. Punctuated with a guttural snarl.

"And how was I supposed to compensate for that when you lashed out in a blind tantrum?" Another swing and hiss. "I am not invalidating your emotions. Contrary to your beliefs, I am trying to help you. You simply choose not to listen." This was clearly a matter of contention between them, long and overdrawn and oblivious to time in ways that spoke of sleepless nights. Theta knew those retraced footsteps well through North's soles. But there was never anger or self-annihilation like this.

Finally, Maine balled his hands at his sides, breathing heavy through his nostrils. Sigma sighed and closed his eyes, fingertips reaching for the bridge of his nose. The vortex of leaping flames dimmed to a concentrated smolder.

"I…will not report your injury to the infirmary staff," Sigma muttered. "Steal ice from the gallery and compress your fingers. Try to minimize usage with that hand. Seeing as the Brute Shot is a two-handed weapon you will need to shoot left hand with your Magnum."

Slowly, Maine unlocked his hunched shoulders, gingerly flexing the wrist. He didn't quite meet Sigma's eyes, and after a heartbeat grunted.

"You're welcome."

Maine returned to observing the red flush on his knuckles, the keloid scar tissue rippling across his neck when he exhaled.

"The problem is not an inefficiency in combat." Maine snapped his head up at the soft tone, and Theta peered a little closer. "Your redoubled training, coupled with the mod and physical therapy, have allowed you to bypass what you were previously capable of prior to your injury."

To which Maine pointed at the Leaderboard just outside the glass, where it loomed and judged them.

"Merely a measure of status, which is constantly subject to change. Your rank will rise again. If I may," said Sigma. "The problem is less with the equipment and more with yourself." At the inquiring chin-bob the A.I. elaborated. "Meaning your temper. Something that you can and certainly should use, but not to the point of over-heating the mod and exhausting yourself. No one here finds fault with your progress except you."

Maine made another, inarticulate sound best described as _chh_, before he thunked down on the bench.

"Emotion influences actions and performance―positive and negative ones." Sigma flickered. "And denial on your part does not change that." Maine glared anew, and the avatar clasped his hands behind his back. "I say this not to anger or mollycoddle you, but to enlighten you. And help."

Sigma wasn't outwardly intimate or caring, and normally spoke with deference. Which was why Theta wasn't expecting him to cross the distance between them in a blink of light, and rematerialize on Maine's knee. A holographic hand reached out and lightly pantomimed touching the livid flesh over his knuckles.

"You are only handicapped if you allow yourself to be." Theta was taken aback by how gentle he sounded. Not unlike North he realized, with insightful sympathy. "You are more than your injury." The harsh lines around the Freelancer's eyes softened, however minutely, and he made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat. "We will find a way," he murmured fervently. "We are more."

_I get scared sometimes, too._

_You do?_

_Oh yeah. Plenty scared._

It was North's face, superimposed over Maine's ruined one, that overwhelmed Theta, and he retreated back to his handler. Just in time, North was stepping out of the stall, wet hair plastered to his forehead and towel around his waist. His face lit up at the sight of the purple figure hovering nearby. "Hey, didn't notice you log off." Theta made no comment as he followed the agent back to his locker. "Ready to see the movie?"

"Yep!"

"You're going to love it. It's almost as good as _The Avengers_."

"…Hey, North?"

"Yeah?"

He couldn't say it.

"It's nothing."

* * *

><p>"—and for the last time, stop putting the crates with the ASMs near the aft of the Pelican! 'Cause when I start this thing's thrusters and the heat ignites the rocket pods I'm not going to be the one explaining to the Director why half his ship is on fire!"<p>

One minute they were on their way to the canteen. The next, North's offering to help a Standard Issue Soldier clearly behind on his rounds with last-minute deliveries. This one specifically to Deck 3, in the main hangar.

Into the loving arms of Four-Seven-Niner. Who by the sounds of it was in dire need of medication.

Theta instinctively shied from the volume that, even forty feet and two corridors away, was loud. "Maybe we should come back later."

North adjusted the box in his arms. It nearly obscured his visor. "Don't worry. She doesn't bite."

Theta considered. "It's not her bite I'm afraid of."

The Freelancer tried to look over the box at him, with limited success. "You don't have to weather the storm with me, you know," he reassured. "You can always log off."

Consciously the A.I. straightened his posture, mimicking the gesture from the few times he'd seen North do it when getting ready to confront Insurrectionists, or his sister. "It's okay. She's not mean. Just…loud."

"Oh, yeah." North laughed under his breath. "Understatement, kiddo."

The cranky, caustic yell was a force unto itself; North jumped. "You do _not_ have the clearance to go anywhere near that, buddy. Touch it again and I'll bite your fingers off."

"…are you sure she's all bark, North?" Theta nervously piped up.

Again, the sharpshooter shifted the crate in his arms, sounding a touch uncertain this time. "Most days."

"What about today?"

"I guess we're going to find out, aren't we?" Not that he sounded overly thrilled about the prospect, and rightly so. There was a reason the Director had assigned _her_ to their unit.

"That was eighty-eight decibels, North."

"I know, Theta."

"She's going to yell at us, North."

"I know, Theta."

"Are you sure we can't come back later?"

"We're only dropping this off," he pointed out. "If we don't give her a reason to be angry at us then she won't be."

To which Theta shrugged, an idiosyncrasy he'd picked up from York. "Delta says that angry people don't need a reason to yell at something; they just need something to yell at."

A pause, as his agent thoughtfully considered that information. It spoke volumes of North's feelings for Protocol that he neglected to reprimand Theta for communicating with his sibling. There were a lot of things that North was neglecting as of late.

"We'll be quick," North promised. He jabbed his elbow in the release switch on the wall panel, and lo opened the doors to Four-Seven-Niner's domain. It was nearly empty sans four or five dock workers, and the one unfortunate engineer cursed with the existence of being the pilot's chew toy. Currently, he was at the far end of the deck, fiddling with some expensive-looking wires on one of the spare vehicles kept for solo ops.

El Diablo was currently standing on top of a ladder with her head inside of the starboard nacelle in reverse ostrich fashion. The custom skull design emblazoned on the hull glistened with wet paint. Judging from the oily rags, canisters of wax, and random tools strewn about the floor, she'd been running maintenance.

North cleared his throat. "Drop-off for vehicle Four-Seven-Niner, restock on flares."

Something clattered inside the nacelle, followed by swearing in Spanish. With a heartfelt oath the pilot ducked out from under the heavy machinery, turning toward them with deliberate slowness designed to intimidate. Oily smudges smeared the dark skin of her face, and what must have been a white tank top at one point was now out-graying the floor. The standard issue green fatigues at least had the grace to look thoroughly worn so that any new stains simply blended in.

Upon recognizing her guests her brown eyes lit up, and not in the welcoming sort of way. She climbed down and homed in on the pair like a heat-seeking missile. "Just the Freelancer I wanted to see," greeted the pilot, the personable tone setting off all sorts of warning bells.

Theta felt North stiffen at the off-beat address. "I…am?"

"Technically anyone from Alpha Team would have cut it, but you're here so sure, you'll do nicely." _Definitely_ didn't like the vindictive gleam in her eyes. "Consider yourself honored."

"Should I?" North wondered.

When she failed to elaborate and continued to dissect him with her flat, unimpressed stare, North emphatically lifted the box a little higher in his arms and held it forward―an offering to appease the god of vengeance. "I brought you the shipment of flares you ordered a week ago."

Wordlessly she accepted the parcel and lowered it to floor, only to then begin fishing around in a back pocket. Blowing a bang out of her face, Four-Seven shoved what looked like a rolled up sheet of paper into North's chest. "Great. While you're at it see if you can't get these orders for me as well."

"I'm not sure I―" The protest died on his lips as he unrolled the parchment until it was three feet long in his hands. North squinted at the lines upon lines, all listed and numbered in ridiculously tiny handwriting. Upon closer inspection Theta realized that it wasn't a continuous sheet of paper, but rather multiple sheets stapled and taped together.

Finally he looked up. "What is this?"

Thunderstorms brewed in her eyes, the holy-shit-run-for-the-bunkers kind of disaster you typically wanted to avoid. Hence Theta doing the mental equivalent of kicking North in the shin to get him to _move_.

"I'm sure you won't remember this—let's chalk it up to all the impact trauma killing what precious few brain cells you still have—but on day one of the program when you were being toured around the docking bay I laid down a few ground rules for conduct on my ship. I made it explicitly clear that there would be no room for bull crap, and that is exactly what you people have gone and done. So now you're going to make sure the rest of your teammates get it in their addled heads that my ship is not a gas station bathroom, and they do not get to treat it as such."

The sharpshooter continued to stare. "…Right," he said, at length. "And what do you want me to do?"

"_You_," Four-Seven-Niner declared, in true lynch mob fashion, "are going to stand _right here_ and take all of this in. Then, you're going to take everything on this list back to your team and make sure _they_ get it."

A silent query came from North for duration, and Theta quietly hummed back an estimate leaning toward thirty minutes minimum. Both inwardly cringed, and North looked at the paper again, at the font so tiny you needed a NASA telescope to read it. "Wouldn't it have been easier to record that electronically than by hand?"

"Sure it would," she answered. "But I want you to _appreciate_ how pissed I am. Figured the shock value method would help make things stick. So listen and listen well. One: when I say that the ship is rigged for _fast running, no heavy armaments_ it does not mean that you trigger-happy jar-heads get to drag a crate with a ten kilo payload of C4 onboard. Tell Maine the next time he wants to start a high school science fair project in the backseat I'll be more than happy to show him what a real mushroom cloud looks like."

North didn't deign to comment. Just kept staring brokenly at the paper in his hands_. _

"Two: tell your sister that my ship is not her personal ashtray. The next time I see or smell her lighting up, I'm opening the airlock."

This time he conceded the point. Didn't make the thought any less tedious. "I'll talk to her."

"Exactly what I wanted to hear. Three: if you're gonna smuggle alcohol onto my bird then I want a 10% cut. Alcohol is a Class B Contraband, and if I get caught with all of you drunk on my ship my license gets suspended. If you assholes are gonna risk it anyway and bring bootleg beer on missions then I damn sure better see a can of Coors Light in my hand."

"That was _one_ time―"

"_Six_, if you count the incident with the minefield."

"No one counts the incident with the minefield."

"Not true. Florida counts it."

"So you plan on flying us back _plastered_?"

"It's called compartmentalizing. Look it up."

Before North could argue Four-Seven-Niner dug a metal tin out of her back pocket and popped the lid open. Multiple wads of dried, half-masticated chewing gum clumped together, rattled apart when she shook the tin in front of his visor.

"I scraped these off the underside of the seats. I don't know whose bright idea it was, but seeing as Alpha Team is the only one I cart around, I can take a guess. I don't care if you have to call a staff meeting, but I want it addressed to everyone that the next time I find gum under a seat, I'm having F.I.L.S.S. cross-run DNA tests on the saliva on the gum and the spit in your mouths, then forcing you to eat the other person's gum. I would strongly advise you not to test me on that one."

North bit back the urge to sigh. "Not that I'm not listening, but these kinds of grievances should go to Carolina. Why are you telling me?"

She fixed him with a flat stare, before she said in an offhand tone, "Hey, kid."

Theta flickered, startled at the sudden address. "Um. Yes?"

Four-Seven crossed her arms over her chest. "How does that fancy trinket in his head work? Magic, right?"

Not sure what to make of the non sequitur, he rattled off, "It's a liquid crystal lattice network surgically interwoven with the central and peripheral nervous systems that can directly interface with the electrochemical signals. The partition-port is linked with the cerebellum—"

"Thought so," she interrupted. "According to him you've got a brain, so use it, genius. I'm not about to piss off my co-pilot—my _only_ co-pilot, I might add—and end up solo-flying. Besides, she's got other BS to deal with. The second reason?" North inched back as Four-Seven-Niner leaned into his space. "Carolina's not scared of me like the rest of you halfwits are."

North took a step back.

"Christ, it's like training puppies. Big, dumb, Rottweiler puppies." Four-Seven muttered something that might have been "shock collar" before she continued: "Five: no more bringing back dead Grunts as souvenirs. Alternatively, make sure they're dead _first_. I do not want another repeat of last…"

Since the lecture fell more on North's shoulders Theta tuned it out. From there he proceeded to let his attention drift, his curious gaze returning to the Pelican parked a distance off.

A thought occurred to him. A reparatory, deliriously exciting thought.

_Hey, North?_

_What's up? _

The answer to all of his problems. Why had he never considered this before?

_Do the dropships have wireless accessibility?_

_Routers are standard issue for PFL's models. That's how F.I.L.L.S. establishes pipelines to the Command Server. At least, I think so._

_Oh. Okay. Thanks, North!_

_No problem._

Unnoticed by the humans, Theta reprojected himself.

* * *

><p>"…and if Tex ever parks her stupid motorcycle in here again and gets tread marks on the floor, she's going to be scrubbing every panel with a toothbrush until I can see the blood and tears reflected in the surface."<p>

At this rate he was never going to be able to blink again without having her list tattooed to the inside of his eyelids.

What North wouldn't give for the klaxon to go off, the Director to call a Level 1 dispatch over the intercom, aliens to attack, literally _anything_.

"We are talking about the same Agent Texas, right? If Carolina can't get her to listen," he reasoned, "then what makes you think she'll listen to―"

Behind them the ship's engines roared to life. Heat waves poured from the nacelles while heavy gusts of air rushed from the underside vents, sending the step-ladder flying halfway across the room. Four-Seven-Niner whipped around with an arm crooked over her face.

"The hell…" Perhaps seeing her baby lights-on and engines-hot all on its own explained away the delayed reaction. Took a second, but she picked her jaw off the floor, and proceeded to use it at full volume. "That's my ship!"

Which was the precise moment the short-range broadcast on her earpiece went off. The call automatically transferred to speaker, the tinny voice on the other end nearly drowned out by the whirring engine. _"Four-Seven, what is going on down there? You are not authorized for takeoff, over."_

"Copy that," she barked. "I'm not the one in there!"

A pause._ "Then who is?"_

"That's what I'm trying to find out!" Four-Seven-Niner dropped the communiqué. She proceeded to circle around to the nose of the ship, snarling as her ponytail whipped into her face. "Did you see anyone get in?"

"No!" the gunner shouted back. "Hold on, maybe Theta can contact the interloper from the cockpit. Theta, I need you to―"

No activity on the neural net. Just a reverberated echo across the wire-nerve pathways, in place of the omnipresent humming and steady stream of code. Theta had logged off the interface.

_Theta? Why aren't you respondi… _

Twelve feet over their heads, North could make out a faint purple glow inside the cockpit.

"What the fuck is your A.I. doing?" A little quicker on the draw, Four-Seven-Niner reached him in two lengthy strides. "Get him out of there now!"

Slightly panicked now, North probed harder at the interface. _Theta! Theta, you need to get out of there! Theta!_ He turned helplessly to the woman next to him. "He's not listening to me."

"What do you mean, 'he's not listening to you'?" she snapped. "Can't you just use the Force?"

"What?"

"That mind-talking thing you guys with implants do. Don't give me that look, I see York and that little green dude using telepathy on each other all the time!"

"That's not―" Maybe A.I. Theory classes should have been mandatory for everyone on the ship. "It's not telepathy! We're not reading each other's minds!" Technically speaking, anyway.

"I don't give a rat's ass what it is, get him to disconnect from my ship before he blows a hole in the wall!"

The Pelican's frame gave an aborted shudder, like a horse trying to dislodge a fly. North could see Theta's hologram winking uncertainly as he moved over the dash.

"I can't if he's muting me. Or if he's not paying attention." Flailing his arms like he was trying to reinvent the wave had about the same level of success as yelling. He went to run a hand through his hair and bumped the appendage into his helmet. North hesitated, considering. The helmet slid over his eyes with a click, and he reared back his arm.

"Don't you even think about―"

It bounced off the window with a muffled thump and rolled to a standstill. Overhead, North could see the purple light flicker against the domed glass, and a second later Theta was pressing his hands against it and peering down. He waved at them.

He jabbed his finger firmly at the A.I., then at the ground.

Finally taking a hint, Theta dissolved his form, the holo-avatar rematerializing before them (and with it, the interfacial connection). Over the roar of the ship's engine he said, "Hi," then noticing the daggers being glared at him, nervously asked, "Is something wrong?"

The pilot advanced toward him in too-controlled movements, the impulse to rip Theta out of North's head and throw him into an incinerator visible in every restrained fist-clench and bared tooth. Furious nearly to the point of incoherence, she yelled, competing decibel-for-decibel with the ship: "Promptly remove your neon ass from the motherboard and turn down the ship's power cells!"

Theta tilted his head at North. It was still difficult to hear. "What did she say―?"

"_TURN. OFF. THE. SHIP_."

Silence came so suddenly it seemed as loud as the preceding noise. The Pelican complacently sat there, looking for all the world as if it hadn't just nearly been hijacked and taken for a joyride.

Four-Seven-Niner spoke, low and even and slightly trembling. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

Under the baleful scowl Theta cowered, backpedaling until he stood level with North's ear. His tone was meek, unsure of what he'd done wrong but immediately contrite. "I wasn't going to hurt anyone," he insisted. "I just wanted to―"

"The D77-TC is not a toy." Her eyes were chips of ice. "Only trained, licensed pilots, or members of the program with special clearance are allowed to operate one. If I let any random jackoff behind the wheel we'd be shipping people back in body bags. That goes for you too, pipsqueak, because I'm damn sure no one upstairs cleared you or gave you adequate training. You're supposed to be a Smart A.I., so act like one! What if you activated weapon deployment and launched incendiaries into the walls? You could have killed someone. What if you hurt North?"

The electric current that passed between them was raw with emotion that mental image provoked, and North blinked at the way Theta balked, the way he dimmed to a wan, sickly pale-purple and inwardly flinched.

Where the hell did that come from?

He made a mental note to ask later, when they could talk in private. "I'm sure he didn't mean―"

"_Do not worry. The A.I. are only here to assist field agents. They will not be replacing members of our staff now, nor at any foreseeable point in the near future._" Her mockery of the Counselor's passive drone was scary accurate. "I turn my back for one second and an A.I. is already trying to muscle in on my turf. Next thing I know F.I.L.S.S. isn't going to just be riding shotgun, she'll be the fucking shotgun!"

In a gesture few (read: Carolina) ever attempted, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "Look," North persisted, "I know Theta wasn't in there for long, but maybe you should check it out anyway. Make sure nothing's out of place."

_But I didn't__―_

The internal flash of warning silenced him. Theta stared miserably at the floor.

"I mean, I doubt he did any real damage, but it couldn't hurt to see for yourself," urged North. "In case he messed with your settings. Accounted for air pressure or something like that."

She affixed North with beady, suspicious eyes, lip curling ever-so-slightly. "There _isn't_ any air pressure in space."

"See, and that's why you're the expert and no one could ever hope to replace you."

Four-Seven-Niner lifted her chin, then grudgingly submitted to his logic. "Fine." With a snort she bent down and scooped up the helmet, shoving it into North's hands. "Add _no throwing armor at the windshield_ to the list." Still simmering, the pilot whipped around and marched toward the ship's ramp.

"North, I didn't mean to upset her," the little construct pleaded, "I really didn't. I didn't break her ship, I swear―"

"Wait until we're outside the hangar," he ordered under his breath. North glanced, once, in her direction, waiting until she skulked up the gangway before taking his chance to escape. Helmet tucked under his arm and paper in hand, he booked it, only slowing his jog once there were two flights of stairs and three corridors between themselves and the enraged pilot. Again Theta flickered into existence, his head downcast.

"Are you mad at me?" asked Theta.

North dropped the parchment and helmet onto the ground. "Yes. No." A hand tiredly combed through his hair. "That was really dangerous, Theta."

"I know. I mean, I didn't know!" Theta refused to meet his gaze. "I didn't break her Pelican, honest. All I did was activate manual controls." This time he did turn to look his way, arm tugged against his chest. "I wouldn't ever hurt you."

"I know you wouldn't." It was scary, the palpable wave of relief North felt emanate from Theta when he said that. How _desperate_ it felt. He sank back into the wall. "And I know you didn't break it. She was just overreacting. She yells whenever someone sneezes on her ship." The sharpshooter folded his arms over his chestplate. "So. You want to tell me what you were thinking?"

Self-consciously the A.I. squirmed. "…You'll think it's stupid and laugh," he mumbled.

North was mildly astonished by that information. And disturbed. "There's not a single thing you've said that I thought was stupid. And have I ever laughed at you?"

Theta said nothing.

"Have I?"

"…No."

"Then why do you think I would laugh at you now?"

There was a second where he thought Theta wouldn't answer him. Then he spoke, words so fast they almost clipped together: "Delta and Gamma and Sigma are always doing nice things for their agents even when they don't have to. And when Four-Seven-Niner said that she had only one co-pilot I thought learning how to fly her ship would help, in case she and Agent Carolina were incapacitated, and there needed to be someone else who could help keep you and everyone else onboard safe." Theta exhaled shakily, and looked at North. "All I wanted to do was download a tutorial program and memorize it. I didn't realize how complex it was. I just…I just wanted to be a better A.I. for you. I'm sorry, North, I'm so sorry I didn't mean―"

"Theta." He looked so timid, so expectant of―of what? reprimand?―and involuntarily went to shy away when North reached a hand out for him. The glowing silhouette was nearly engulfed in the palms cupping him, pulling him closer to North's concerned face. He looked up at the Freelancer, his distress visible in every pixel and shimmer of fractal light. "You don't have to do that kind of stuff for me. You're already great as you are."

"…No, I'm not. You're just _saying _that."

"What makes you think I'm not telling the truth?"

"Because…" His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Because you're nice. And you just want to make excuses for me. But if I was as good as my brothers you wouldn't need to make excuses."

He was quiet for a moment. "Did I ever tell you," he began, "about February tenth?"

Theta paused, his stare unfocused as he sifted through archived databanks and memories. "That was three weeks after I was implanted. I was logged off that night."

"That's right," North agreed. His gaze softened. "They had all of us with implants at the time doing physical checkups. Making sure we were integrating without any hitches."

York, Maine, Wyoming, and North, all stripped down to their boxers sitting on gurneys while the medics poked and prodded and ran all sorts of invasive tests at unholy hours of the night. The four of them discussing the Project, the changes, how fast things were moving.

"We ended up talking about you guys." Theta flickered at him, nervous, but listening with renewed interest. "About how weird it was having another person living inside your head. What it was like for each of us. Do you know what I said about you?"

"No?" Uncertainty rang clear in his voice, incongruously young and tentative. Afraid of what the answer would be.

North pulled Theta a little closer, the A.I. following the gentle movements of his hand. "I said you were nothing like what I expected, and it was probably the first thing I liked about you. I liked that I had someone to watch movies with―something that even _South_ won't do with me. Or how about the fact I had someone to help me on missions?"

"Delta can calculate percentages faster than me."

"Delta also can't do half of what you can do with a Dome Shield."

"You're awake at night because of me."

"This isn't my first rodeo. I've been losing sleep since I volunteered for this outfit, months before you came into the picture."

"But…wouldn't you rather have an A.I. that can modify your success rate?"

"Theta, you _already_ do that for me. I'm number five on the Leaderboard. Five out of fifty. The top percentage of the Project." He frowned. "You don't see your brothers trying to learn to fly a space ship for their agents. That _means_ something. That's why there's no other A.I. I'd rather have except you." He felt the impact that statement made―a buzz of electricity, a rush of neurotransmitter―and kept going, pushing for some sort of acknowledgement from him. "York told me to shut up because I wouldn't stop bragging about you."

Finally North felt the warm flash of affection, a silent gratitude that transcended words. "You really think so, North?" He asked the obvious question anyway.

"I _know_ so." He hoped the conviction was enough. It was the very least he owed Theta for the oversight, for not seeing the computer program's distress prior. That familiar warm impression settled over his nerves like a blanket, a secondary layer of sensation and conscience that wasn't his, and Theta visibly relaxed. "But from now on, ask first before you try operating machinery you don't understand. Especially machinery that isn't yours."

Theta brightened a little. "I won't. I promise." He hesitated. "I really am sorry."

"I'm not upset at you. I was just worried."

"Oh."

"Besides." North crouched to grab his helmet and the paper. He continued down the hall with Theta sitting on his shoulder. "I'm not the one you have to apologize to."

"…I was sort of hoping you forgot about that."

* * *

><p><strong>Headcanon 1<strong>: Four-Seven-Niner is like a carbon copy of Trudy Chacón from _Avatar_.

**Headcanon 2**: Wyoming and Gamma told the Director that the Temporal Distortion mod, despite having an A.I. to run it, didn't work. They've been lying through their teeth, using it for missions and for their own personal gain. Q.E.D. ^

And now it's time to reply to the reviews.

**WargishBoromirFan** – Thanks! I'll be honest, the bits with the BGC and Wyoming were my favorites too. I have a not-so-secret adoration for British men with handlebar mustaches. Plus, writing dialogue for the sim troopers is a guilty pleasure. A bit difficult to cobble together, but ultimately amazing.

**HawthornSword **– The tragic stories are always the hardest/easiest to write; easiest because I know how to get into characters' heads and fuck shit up, hardest because it pains me so much to have to ruin their lives for the sake of the plot. I have this theory that the amount a writer loves his characters is directly proportionate to how much hell said writer puts the character through. Anyway, I'm glad to hear you liked it. And Theta makes for great poorly-contrived cuteness, partly because the mindset of a child is capable of getting away with so much.

**Alkeni **– Ha! "Not too dense" is putting it nicely. I had to cut so much from the last chapter so it wouldn't run on forever.

**Velgamidragon** – Honestly, the last chapter surprised me too. I hadn't planned on doing it for several months. In the end I erred on the side of "screw it I already wrote the chapter so what if it's a wrist-slitter" and before I knew it my cursor was hovering over the upload .doc button. That, and I wanted to indulge in Wyoming and Florida being totalbros. Theirs is such a bittersweet/psychotic friendship.

**DaLintyMan** – And can kill people with a combination of dome shields and misdirection. What a sweet kid.

**P.A.W.07** – Can I first take a second to say how humbling it is to have a writer with such renown as yourself acknowledging an unknown like me? The fact that you think my shit is worthy of being faved is, just, seriously, _thank you_, okay? Thank you.

Next chapter's gonna be something short and sweet, nothing too gut-punching.


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